Of course California attorney general Kamala Harris is a sex object. Just look at her. Smooth, unblemished, milk-chocolate skin. Flowing brown locks. Hourglass figure. Don’t forget the black nylons and stiletto heels, less “business-professional” than “look at my long legs.” You’d never guess she’s 48 years old. She could easily pass for 30.
As a lawyer, it helps your chances of winning a case if the judge and jury like you. And men, who comprise about one-half of the population, like pretty women, and will endure just about any line of crap pretty women feed them. I’ve heard Kamala Harris’s line of Leftist crap in various appearances on CNN. The only enjoyable thing about her speaking is watching the parting of her moist lips. Definitely an improvement over her hideous predecessor, current California governor Jerry Brown.
Some might accuse me—or the president—of “sexualizing” Kamala Harris, of belittling her personality and professional and political acumen, as if I had a choice between noticing and not noticing what a babe she is. There is no choice. Biologically, men are programmed to notice attractive women and to pursue them. This is how the sorting process for a mate begins.
Once upon a time, women wisely manipulated this to their long-term advantage. Her demands of stability and fidelity combined with his impulse for sexual congress provided the alchemy for a miraculous change in his sexual character. His urgent lust transformed into enduring love. “There will be a knowledge that to treat this treasure as an object—mere flesh like his own, a mere matrix of his pleasure—is to defile life itself,” writes George Gilder. She ascended above her nubility, above the explicit sexual functions of her body, to equal footing with her husband, a helpmate equal to him, to paraphrase Genesis. When done right, his love sustained her to the end of her life, long after the narrow window in which she wielded sexual authority over men had closed.
The same people who decried the president’s compliment to Kamala Harris deny this natural prescription for the sexes. To them, male flattery is chauvinism that can be ironed out by indoctrination, not a sexual imperative. The marital norm, too, is a figment of the past, a prison to be liberated from. But outside this prison, the “liberated” woman finds herself stuck on an island, surrounded by tall cliffs and buffeted by wind and rain. Buying into the technological myth of sex without consequences, she squanders her sexual capital. She accepts men’s boorish behavior, satisfying his immediate cravings, denying him the kick in the pants he needs to become a responsible husband and father. In her twilight years she is bitter, alone, vulnerable, and regretful, as male contemporaries chase after the freshest crop of unsuspecting beauties.
Case in point: Elizabeth Wurtzel, 44, who senses her time has come and gone:
By never marrying, I ended up never divorcing, but I also failed to accumulate that brocade of civility and padlock of security—kids you do or don’t want, Tiffany silver you never use—that makes life complete. Convention serves a purpose: It gives life meaning, and without it, one is in a constant existential crisis. If you don’t have the imposition of family to remind you of what is at stake, something else will. I was alone in a lonely apartment with only a stalker to show for my accomplishments and my years.
Women who have it all should try having nothing: I have no husband, no children, no real estate, no stocks, no bonds, no investments, no 401(k), no CDs, no IRAs, no emergency fund—I don’t even have a savings account. It’s not that I have not planned for the future; I have not planned for the present.
What a shame.
Women have always been sex objects, and always will be sex objects. The difference lately is that feminists, whose premises the culture has imbibed, reject life-sustaining, romantic love, which elevates women to men’s equal and satisfies both their needs. Under this time-tested model, men and women flourish.